Fault
by iLackSocialLife
Summary: AU. Dean is still dealing with the abuse he suffered years ago. His best friend, Cas, is determined to convince him that the abuse was not his fault. First story ever, so..


I swung my left foot forward and punched the suspended bag more forecfully than I had initially intended, grunting at the painful contact my bare knuckles made with the blood-stained leather. On any other day, my rational side would be nagging at me to quit while I'm behind, to stop before I caused possibly irreparable damage, as one does not just go about punching heavy bags gloveless. But I couldn't get myself to give it a fraction of a thought. Today, I didn't care. The blinding, excruciating fury that burned within me stole what negligible self-preservation I had left and hogged the rationality I was never quite certain I acquired in the first place.

I switched arms swiftly and hit the bag harder. The day I got this bag was the day I claimed war against the one person I unfathomably detested, the person who robbed me of a childhood I could've had. Strangely, and funnily, enough, that person is me. I'm the villain in my story. The prevalent perception people have of villains is one I scoff at. A villain does not necessarily inflict pain - he could easily earn the title by merely allowing others' pain, or even his own, to continue.

I swung my strong arm with a trunk twist towards the face I envisioned on the bag, forgetting to lock my elbow at the safe 90 degree angle. I barely registered the pain before the face on the bag began to mold into someone else's, and in a hearbeat, I was looking at the father I had thought I'd seen the last of three years ago - the father I should've crowned as the villain.

Three years ago, I was nothing. Three years ago, I was a boxing bag, and the idea claimed such stubborn residence in my head and weaseled its way through me with such ferocity that nothing I did could've pulled it out. I was the boxing bag he returned home to. I had accepted that role in our almost non-existent relationship since my mother fell ill. Such a shame I was eight at the time. I had long since ceased to think of myself as anything but a body to vent with. It never mattered how hard he threw me around or how long it took for his frustration to burn out. As long as I could cover the bruises from Mom, his life was peachy.

I did not feel the warm trickle of blood on my knuckles, nor did I realize that my fists were slipping off the wet, slick leather of the bag. I wasn't all there. I was back in the cemetry, three years back, standing at my father's grave and wondering what I even was after his death. How do you give back a person's humanity after hiding it away for six years? How do you convince me that my feelings matter when my father assumed I had none?

It was my fault, but I no longer wanted it to be. I didn't want to be a face on a boxing bag anymore.

I just wanted to be Dean.

I was suddenly all too aware of gentle hands on my wrists, beckoning me away from the bag and into open arms. I felt a hand guiding my head to rest on a broad, warm shoulder, and I was almost certain that the instant wetness I felt there was, in fact, my tears. I pressed my face into the stranger's neck, my heart twisting in pain as a hand lazily stroked the back of my neck and a voice murmured soft nothings into my ear. I clutched at the muscular back and released everything I had been holding back for a lifetime.

Sobbing was an unfamilair territory to me. If I had any say in the matter, I'd claim that nothing could feel any worse than the invisible claws tearing into my chest. I cried for the first time in years and it _hurt. _

It felt like hours before I felt my body go lax in the arms that now rocked me slowly. I wanted to remain there forever. I wanted this hand to keep running over my back in a soothing motion. I wanted the cool puff of air on my ear to remain forever, reassuring and just_ there_.

But the need to see this angel's face grew with every passing second, and I pulled away slowly.

"Cas?" My voice was hoarse - too hoarse - that I otherwise wouldn't have recognized it as my own.

His hands were still on my shoulders, as if sensing I still needed the contact. "Hello Dean."

Of course. Who else would know where to find me? I remained silent, for I didn't trust my self to speak yet.

"Have you forgiven yourself, Dean?" His tone was incredibly gentle, which was unusual for Cas. I told him about my father today. He was the first person I had ever told.

I swallowed hard and looked away. I didn't want to answer. I didn't want him to drag me into this conversation again.

But I answered anyway. "You don't let yourself get caught up in this for 6 years and then forgive yourself." It's true. Forgiveness does not come easy. But the weight on my shoulders was dragging me down a pit so deep it was _suffocating _me.

As though reading my thoughts, Cas spoke up. "It wasn't your fault." His hand trailed down the whole length of arm and lingered on my hand before he let go. He didn't give me enough time to miss the warmth of the touch, though, and his hands moved to grip the sides of my face. I refused to look into his eyes - I did not deserve the faith that radiated off of him.

"Look at me."

Damn it. I couldn't deny him anything. My eyes flicked up to meet his.

"It's not your fault."

I nodded. It wasn't my fault. _It wasn't my fault. _

"Say it," he demanded, tighting his hold on my head. "You need to say it."

I couldn't quite tell if he was moving or if it was me who's trembling, but I was instantly grateful for the fact that his hands were stilling me.

"It's not my fault," I all but whispered.

"It's not your fault." I was back in his arms again, but this second round of sobs wasn't as painful as the first. A piece of the burden I was carrying around my entire life was disappearing with every escaping tear.

I'm not sure how many times I ended up uttering those words into Cas's shoulder. And I couldn't care less.

Because it was no longer my fault.


End file.
